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High On FireIrving Plaza
December 29

A mix of old/new equaled harmonious yin/yang: The Art of Self Defense's made-for-finale epic "Baghdad""Nameless masses cower/From horse and carriage/In the sky"perfectly buttressed "Devilution," a roll-rampant, war-ensemble "George W. Bush fuckin' lullaby" (Pike said) from their upcoming gem, Blessed Black Wings. The pit, composed of standard-fare jocks, cop rockers, and has-beens, wasn't as entertaining as last year's Knitting Factory whirlpool, wherein a dainty umbrella became a genteel Mummer's Parade prop in the arms of some Stone Temple Rollins guy. Here, a dude with G N' R headgear sent instant messages to his chick on some kind of electronic gadget"That was fucked-up. I'm fucked-up. I had fun last night"breaking the old-timey vibe with digit-age dilettantism. But the bombast equaled Ace of Spades in bed with Master of Puppets, and whatever the context or lack thereof, Pike and company performed heavy surgery with scientific precision, pausing only briefly to part the pot haze ("Get this screen out of my fuckin' way," "Thank you fuckin' New York") after consecrating the altar with burned offerings. Transubstantiation was short-lived, though, when Clutch's Phishy System-of-a-Bizkit bleating sent HOF devotees on a Cinderella beeline, half-finished cans of holy water changed into lukewarm, domestic-brewed swill before they reached the exit.